Unintended Consequences
by Lady WhiteHaven
Summary: Lord Voldemort left as many as seven horcruxes, any one of which could have brought him back. Wormtail brought him back once, but what if another was activated? AU from Harry's fifth year.
1. Prologue

A/n: This is an AU beginning in Harry's fifth year. The events of this story are meant to augment Order of the Phoenix—nothing about Harry's experiences change until alte in the story.

Expect canon-typical violence, language, and relationships. This fic is gen but canon romances (pre-DH epilogue) get the occasional mention.

I am an American, and so use American spellings, but I've tried not to leave any glaring Americanisms. If anyone is willing to Brit-pick this monster, please PM me.

Suzanne of Dragon's Breath betaed this, which is only fair, because it's entirely her fault.

Chapter 1 should be up in a few days.

**Prologue**

**Late September, 1995**

Reginaldus Lestrange sat in an artificially cooled magical tent, finishing the last of the water in his canteen as he waited for the September sun to set over the Egyptian desert. He wore the raiment of an Ancient Egyptian priest of Osiris, down to the ground jasper and kohl eye makeup and the gold jewelry stolen from Egyptian Museum in Cairo the week before.

His presence in the country was the result of more than a decade of research and an additional three years of preparation. The ritual he was about to perform was extremely difficult—in his exhaustive search of ancient records, he found only two accounts of success, and none since Alexander the Great banned the ritual entirely in 332 BC. Furthermore, the nature of the ritual was such that he would not get a second chance. He probably would not survive to try.

When the sun approached the horizon, he stood and approached a second, larger tent. With a wave of his wand, he banished the tent to reveal a large, elaborate limestone altar with the body of a young man upon it.

He examined it one last time, making sure every detail was perfect. The altar itself came to his waist and was inlaid with onyx. Djed columns were painted around the base, and Nile river mud and wheat were scattered in the surrounding sand. With a second flick of his wand, the man conjured bluebell flames in the alabaster bowls that sat on each corner.

When he was satisfied that the altar was perfect, Lestrange changed his scrutiny to the body that lay upon it. It was a young man he had found traveling Europe. The boy was easily six feet tall with pale skin and dark hair, dressed in a linen kilt. The older man smiled. Finding a Dementor outside government control to administer a kiss had been difficult, to say nothing of the effort required to keep the body alive until the ritual, but the results were well worth it.

Then Lestrange placed a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles on the altar.

Satisfied with his preparations, he placed his wand in the sand at his feet and grabbed crook and flail of Osiris from where they had been leaning against the altar. The muggle curator of the museum from which Lestrange stole them would have been shocked to learn that they were extremely powerful magical artifacts.

With crook in his right hand and flail in his left, Lestrange pointed both at the golden cup. He watched the horizon. The moment the sun set, he began to recite the Amduat from memory.

Within moments, Lestrange's voice and the slow breath of the body on the altar were the only sounds, and the air was heavy with the charged feel that normally precedes a lightening storm, but the sky was completely clear.

Fifteen minutes later, the golden cup began to glow.

Exactly one hour after he began, still chanting, Lestrange lifted the crook and flail slightly, so that they were pointing at a spot a few inches above the cup. The glow followed, and a bright sphere hovered above the cup.

Time passed, and Lestrange continued to recite the Amduat. At the end of each section, Lestrange would raise the crook and flail a bit more until, precisely six hours after he began, the glowing orb hovered about six feet above the altar.

Thereafter, every time he finished a section, Lestrange lowered the crook and flail a bit. Finally, exactly twelve hours after the ritual began, his arms dipped to become level with the body on the bier and the sun rose above the horizon. The orb that had been hovering above the altar all night exploded with a brilliant flash of light.

Ritual complete and near the end of his endurance, Lestrange fell to his knees on the ground, crook and flail crossed before him, and waited for his vision to clear. As he waited, he heard the normal sounds of the desert morning begin to return, which was welcome after the unnatural stillness of the night.

Soon he heard movement on the altar and saw two feet drop to the ground as the body on the altar rose. "My lord," he said and bowed his head.

"My friend," said the newly resurrected Lord Voldemort. He extended a hand to pull Lestrange to his feet. "You succeeded."

"You knew I would." Lestrange was trembling with exhaustion, but he was smiling.

"I never doubted. Let us gather the others. There is much work to do."

End note:

Some of the research I used to create the ritual includes:

.

.

.

wiki/Amduat


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A/N: Takes place around the time of Chapter 16 of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. _And because I forgot to mention it last time, the world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling._  
_

**Thursday, October 3, 1995**

**Bulgaria**

Two men stood in a well-lit but otherwise uninhabited warehouse full of shipping crates. Their attention was firmly focused on three crates sitting on a skid in the center of the floor.

The younger man pulled a rifle from a crate and examined it with an easy familiarity. "It's a grand gun."

"I trust you'll find the shipment to be equally satisfactory," said the second, a well-dressed middle-aged gentleman. His smile was too thin to be pleasant.

The first looked over the two open crates. They contained similar guns. "Everything looks fine. I'll have to do some testing when I get it home, but that will be an issue with the supplier, not you, Mr. Smith."

"Then might I ask why we needed to have this meeting in person? Usually we handle this sort of thing remotely. You're a long way from Ireland and the rest of the IRA. Were I a suspicious man, I would think you were police, here to connect me with the goods." His smile was dangerous.

"Nothing like that," said the first man, quickly allaying suspicion—he knew "Smith's" reputation. The man delivered what he was given as quickly as his shipping routes allowed. A supplier had once tried to send less than the agreed upon amount of munitions and accused Smith of skimming off the rest. No one was quite certain what happened to the man, but he made a full videotaped apology before vanishing completely. What happened to informers didn't bear thinking about. "I want to expand our deal." He placed the rifle back in the case and stepped away, careful not to move in any way that might be construed as a threat. He suspected that Smith was far more dangerous than the guards he had pointedly left behind.

"I was talking to an acquaintance in the Russian Mafia. He said you help with the immigration of certain people whose legal status is, shall we say, uncertain. I'd like to add similar travel arrangements to our deal."

"I'm always happy to take your money, Michael, but I was under the impression that your organization did not engage in trafficking."

"I thought you were happy to take our money without wondering overmuch where it came from."

"Oh, I am. But when people stop acting in accordance with what they've shown their character to be, I get suspicious. Then I start to wonder if they have another motive—one that is against my best interests. And your character, sir, is suspect. In the ten years that we've been doing business, I have transported guns, explosives, and assorted valuables for you, but never people. While I do not care if you plan to use these guns to mow down the entire British Parliament, I care very much if you plan to hand them over to Interpol." His hand moved towards the pocket of his fashionable overcoat as he spoke.

The younger man backed off swiftly. "You're right. We don't traffic in illegals, and we aren't starting now."

Smith relaxed minutely. "Continue."

Michael relaxed in response. "Certain members of my organization have been given an opportunity to study abroad, shall we say. But the bloody shades aren't likely to give them travel papers—they're more likely to get a one way trip to HM Prison Maze. The Russians suggested you might be able to help."

"You've been able to get your people out before."

"It's always been dangerous, but especially recently. The bastards caught one of our boys trying to get to America three months ago. You've never lost one of our shipments. You're expensive, but worth the price."

"When must he be there?"

"November."

"If it is simply a matter of false identity papers..."

"Unfortunately not. The government has circulated their pictures widely, and disguises are not always effective."

"My usual human cargo does without a certain level of creature comforts. This will take some time to arrange. He can meet my agent this month when you retrieve your regular shipment. I'll contact you later with the price."

"You have a bargain. Here's to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

With a final exchange of pleasantries, the younger man left, clearly relieved to be able to do so.

...

"Smith," relaxed once he was certain the puppy was gone. He pulled his wand from the pocket he had reached for earlier. With a quick wave, he replaced the lids on the crates and slotted them into place in the corner with the muggle repelling charms. He left the empty skid for the muggle workers to deal with. With another wave, the illusion disguising his features melted away, leaving a distinguished gentleman in his mid seventies, who the muggle, had he any political awareness, would have recognized as the international shipping magnate Elric Algar.

He sighed. Muggles were so easy to fool, doing so had long since become tedious. He would much prefer to torture the puppy, but he did so much more damage to the entire muggle infrastructure where he was.

He magically erased all sign of his presence and went to the vintage Rolls Royce his driver had waiting. This at least was a muggle luxury he could appreciate. They were much less drafty than brooms, couldn't be traced as easily as portkeys, and one didn't have to be certain one's arrival point was free of muggles as one did with Apparition. And while one had to worry about the charms on brooms and such wearing off, those keeping a car running without petrol were far simpler and easy to renew. While he did have to contend with traffic delays, he could let his driver deal with that tedium while he relaxed in the back with a drink from the fully stocked bar.

And besides, he did have the latest Nimbus, even if he didn't use it often.

Traffic was bad enough that it took an hour to get to his home outside Varna, and once he arrived, he handed his jacket to a maid and retired to his office with strict instructions not to be disturbed for anything less than a visit from the prime minister.

This was why he was understandably annoyed when the maid knocked on his door. "Were my instructions not clear?" he asked icily.

"Sir, there are men at the door, and they say it's important," the maid said nervously.

"The idiot this morning said it was important."

"Sir, when Asen said you weren't receiving visitors, one of them pulled out a stick and did... something. Asen screamed and passed out, and I came to tell you."

Algar leaned forward, all of his attention on the maid. "Describe them."

"Yes, sir. One is about your age, the other is in his mid twenties. Their clothes are new but inexpensive, and—"

"Which had the stick?"

"The younger one, sir."

He stood. "Have the staff prepare two guest rooms, then send all of the non-essential members on vacation until further notice, and have the rest leave my guests be. I do not know how long they will be staying, but the staff need not concern themselves with them."

"Yes, sir. Sir, Asen—"

"Asen will be fine. Just obey my guests' orders as you would mine and there will be no further problems." Algae left his office for the foyer at a pace slightly too fast to be dignified. When he saw the two men standing there, he fell to his knees. "My lord, it is good to see you restored."

The younger man, Tom Riddle, pulled him to his feet. "It is good to see you too, old friend, but your staff leaves something to be desired."

"They are diligent in protecting my interests. They just have not learned that your interests are mine as well. I would still rather have house elves, but they were one of the sacrifices I made when I chose to live as a muggle after your fall from power—I've had to move them to less visible positions. The Amduat Ritual worked as we hoped, I take it?"

"That's the one I used. Thank you for the help getting the artifacts," Lestrange said.

"Only doing my part. How was your trip here?"

"Interminable," Riddle said. "I despise muggle transport."

"I understand completely, my lord. I have been required to use it for business, though my wife and I prefer magical means when traveling for pleasure. I can provide a portkey to your next destination, if you would rather."

"No," Riddle said with a sigh. "Much though I would prefer it, it is not a secure method of travel, not when I do not own the authorities yet. Even if that means more time on aeroplanes. It would be a much better system if not for all the muggles."

"My lord," Lestrange broke in. "You put the entire cabin to sleep five minutes into the flight. "

"Do not forget the long line, only to get to a tedious muggle who demanded our travel papers."

"My lord, you sent most of the line to the toilets and a simple Confundus Charm let us pass the muggle with blank pieces of paper. The entire process took five minutes."

"We then had to wait an hour for the aeroplane."

"You Imperiused one of the muggles to serve us drinks and food."

"Which were terrible."

Lestrange paused. "I can't argue with that one."

"Then we landed in an aeroport that was a proud monument to muggle primitive methods and petty graft. One of the officials had the nerve to demand a bribe to permit our luggage to pass unmolested, despite the fact that we had none."

"You left him with a rather embarrassing problem of a personal nature."

"The taxicab here was absolutely horrid."

"I can't defend that one either. I believe that it a universal condition of taxis."

"I am anxious to regain my former glory if only so that I can use civilized transport once more.

Algar chuckled. "At least you made it to my home with none of the relevant authorities any the wiser. If you will not permit me to provide you with a portkey, I can at least make the next leg of your journey more pleasant. My company owns several airplanes, and it would only take a few spells to modify one to transport you."

"That sounds far better than what I have endured thus far."

"I apologize, my lord. Planning can wait. You both look exhausted." He snapped his fingers and a house elf appeared. "I have instructed the staff to leave you alone. My house elf can show you to guest rooms and provide anything else you desire, and we can discuss business when you're rested."

...

Hours later, they were ensconced in easy chairs in front of the fire in Algar's study with glasses of wine.

"It has been a long time since I've had so fine a vintage, Elric," Lestrange said.

"I know that we stuck you with the hardest part of our plan, but surely you were not deprived of all creature comforts. Even muggles have wine."

"Muggle currency is simple enough to transfigure, so I did not lack for comforts, but educated palates are far more difficult to find. I fear what my sons and daughter-in-law have done to my cellars."

"I'm afraid all three have been in Azkaban these last ten years. You should be afraid of what the Ministry did to your cellars."

"I put my best vintages in my Gringotts vault. They'll be safe there from the Ministry, but my progeny can still get access."

"We, however, are not safe from those fools in the Ministry," Riddle said. "We are rested and fed. It is time for planning."

"Of course, my lord," Algar said. "As you know, we of your inner circle would never presume to plan your return to power; we sought only to return you to life and to England and give you the resources you need to succeed once you're there."

"Lestrange explained this, yes. He did not, however, explain your role."

"Supplies and funds, My Lord. The destabilization of the magical government here following the muggle revolution not only allowed many of your supporters to flourish here, but also created unique markets that I was in an ideal position to take advantage of."

"Go on."

"The muggle government restricted what goods were available, which led to a booming black market for both muggle and magical goods. In addition, the revolution severed the traditional ties between the muggle and magical governments. The result was a booming black market and customs officials and border guards who were especially susceptible to magical influences. The recent collapse of the muggle government has only exacerbated this problem.

"I use my legitimate shipping business to smuggle magical contraband all over Europe. The muggle guards don't recognize magical contraband as such, and don't notice muggle contraband behind concealing spells. Magical guards don't care about muggle contraband and don't bother looking for magical among muggle shipping.

"I have contacts that can acquire anything you may need and I can move it anywhere in the world. I have also used these contacts to amass a large collection of dark artifacts and can get more.

"Furthermore, I have been shipping arms, drugs, and human cargo for every terrorist and criminal enterprise in this hemisphere. If you want mayhem, I have the contacts who can create it. In short, I have found it very profitable to help muggles kill each other."

"Many of your supporters settled here after your fall, and I have kept in touch with many of the more trustworthy ones. Now that you have returned, I'll start sending them back to England. In three months, you'll have an army waiting for you."

"What of my wand?" Riddle asked. "I can use this body's previous owner's wand for now, but I would very much like my own back."

"I am afraid I do not know what happened to it. None of us were present, and our attempts to locate it afterwards failed. If it is any consolation, by all reports, the Ministry does not have it either. Our best guess is that a loyal Death Eater we are not in contact with picked it up."

"At least the Ministry doesn't have it. Are any of your contacts wandmakers?"

"I'll make an appointment for you first thing tomorrow."

"What of my Death Eaters? You said that some followed you to Bulgaria. Did many remain in Britain?"

"My lord, may I ask a question?" For the first time that evening, Algar's voice was tentative. He knew the subject he was about to address was sensitive.

"You may ask." Riddle said levelly. That he would not guarantee an answer was implied.

"When you created the horcrux, you said that they preserved your soul as it was at that point in time. You created it almost three years before you died. Do you remember those three years?"

"I do not. Lestrange filled me in on those last few years, including the degree to which I alienated my faithful compainions. I assure you that I will not be repeating that mistake."

Algar's relief was well hidden, but plain to those who knew him well. "Thank you, my lord. Lestrange will have told you that your ranks swelled in those last few years, Dumbledore and the Aurors decimated our ranks after your fall. We five scattered to plan for your return. Your most loyal followers were mostly killed or imprisoned in Azkaban, including Lestrange's sons." Algar nodded at Lestrange in sympathy. "I do get regular reports from the prison. Your sons and Bellatrix are as well as can be expected."

"Young idiots," Lestrange muttered. "Why they couldn't just keep their heads down and bide their time..."

"Peace, Reginaldus," Riddle said. "They continued the fight in my name. If they were intemperate about it, that is the province of the young. They will be well rewarded for their loyalty." He turned back to Algar. "Go on."

"Others returned to their lives, claiming that they were under the Imperius Curse or that you threatened their families. While I approve of the strategy, especially considering that I used it myself, I do not know how many of them remained loyal."

Riddle nodded acknowledgment. "Those who let the Ministry seduce them into betrayal will be suitably dealt with when the time is right. What about intelligence? I got the _London Times_ at the muggle aeroport, but Lestrange knows little of Wizarding Britain."

"Here I can be less helpful. I have not set foot there in fourteen years, and I dare not make contact with our man there lest someone suspect he was one of your followers. I receive the _Prophet_, but that is little better than a propaganda rag for the Ministry. I can give you the back copies if you would like, but to hear them tell it, every thing is normal."

"Something that might interest you is that Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter have fallen out of favor with the powers that be. Last spring, Potter was the favorite to win the Triwizard Tournament. One of the competitors died in the final task, and ever since, the Ministry has wanted nothing to do with either."

"Interesting, but not relevant at the moment. I am not going to make definite plans until I return, and the Ministry has shown itself to be fickle. What of my other old friends?"

"All three are are well. When you're rested, I'll send you on to advise them of your return personally."

"In that case, let us enjoy the wine and visit with old friends. Further plans can wait until tomorrow."

"Indeed," Lestrange said, leaning forward in his chair and putting aside his wine glass. "Tell us of your new wife. What woman could have the poor taste to marry you?" The other men laughed, and all three talked long into the night.

A/N: the Irish slang came from www dot irishslang dot co dot za slash irisha_ I apologize if I used it incorrectly.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Wednesday, October 9**

**Just after Chapter 17 of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix**

Molly Weasley moved through the kitchen at number twelve, Grimmauld Place with the unthinking efficiency of a woman long accustomed to making dinner in little time amidst distractions. The wizarding wireless played softly in the background.

She was almost done when Remus staggered into the room, obviously injured, followed by Sirius. With a quick _Accio_, she had the first aid kit flying forward.

"You just sit down and I'll have that bandaged in a moment." She moved her wand in complex patterns, cleaning the scratches and bites on his arms and chest, wrapping them in clean bandages, and cleaning dripped blood from the floor.

"Molly, really, that's not necessary. It will take more than a few scratches to kill me."

"Nonsense, it won't be any trouble. I don't know what Albus is thinking, sending you out alone."

"Molly, I volunteered. You Know Who isn't fond of werewolves. He's using them, and they listen because they're—we're—marginalized by the Ministry."

"Which is why you show up here looking like you've been wrestling a nundu?

Sirius was clearly tired of staying out of the discussion, "I should go-"

"No." The answer was instantaneous and came from both Remus and Molly.

"What if you're recognized?" Molly asked, exasperated.

"Never mind that," Remus broke in, his face pale. "What if you're Bitten?!"

"James and I managed to avoid it all through Hogwarts."

"You and Prongs," and Remus's voice was strained, "between you managed to keep one adolescent werewolf in check, and this when I had enough wit left to remember you were my friends. Against actively hostile mature wolves—who, I might add, embrace that side of their nature far more than I do—you wouldn't stand a chance!"

"It's not like I have anything anything else to do! Since we stopped holding regular meetings, I've had nothing to do but sit here like a coward while everyone else takes the risks!"

"You didn't even like the meetings!"

"They were boring! But not as much as sitting around here! I could go—"

"Don't be so bloody eager to kill yourself!"

"Boys!" Molly silenced their argument. "Sirius, you know you can't leave yet. Staying here isn't cowardice, it's good tactics. Once your name is cleared—"

"Which will be when hell freezes over!"

"You can play a more active role." Molly continued as though Sirius hadn't spoken.

"Sirius, most of what we're doing is gathering resources and waiting for you Know Who to make the next move. You provided headquarters, which is key, but you can't help recruit."

"That doesn't make it easier, Molly."

She turned back to the stove after giving Remus's bandages a final inspection. "We know, Sirius. As soon as Albus finds finds something for you to do, he'll give you the assignment. Until Then it's time for lunch. With a wave of her wand, the spoon stopped stirring the soup on the stove and started dishing it into three bowls. They settled at the table.

"Are you expecting someone else, Molly?" Remus asked, eying the large pot of soup.

"Oh, no one in particular, but people drop by all the time. Kingsley and Tonks come by at the end of their shifts, and Kingsley works seven to three today. Albus and Minerva and the other professors come when they can get away, On any given day I usually end up feeding four or five people, so I try to have enough on hand. It warms well.

"Have you heard from Harry recently?" Molly asked. "Ginny's letters have contained a great deal of gossip about her friends and little of substance, Ron hasn't written at all, and the twins have only received three disciplinary reports. I'm beginning to worry."

"Not since I was almost caught in their fireplace."

"Honestly, I hope they forget this notion of a Defense Against the Dark Arts study group."

"I doubt that will happen, Molly," Remus said as he ate. "Harry, Ron, and Hermione know better than most how vital the class is and how dangerous an incompetent professor can be."

"I think it's a good idea. They need the experience, especially now that You Know Who is back," Sirius said.

Molly shot him her best glare. "It's illegal, Sirius. Expulsion will be the least of their worries if they're caught. Harry is not popular with the Ministry right now. Hogwarts is safe."

"I don't think they'll let Umbridge's decree stop them," Remus replied before Sirius could. "Normally Hermione can be counted on to be the voice of reason, but I get the impression that she's in favor of this."

"Of course. When do my children choose to do the sensible thing?"

"Look at it this way: you can be quite certain that Hermione does not want to be expelled, and so she'll take every precaution to make sure they're not caught."

"We were talking curses this summer," Sirius added, "and she managed to find several of the darker books in this place's public library. That girl has enough paranoia for all three of them and has the skills back it up. They'll be safe."

Molly made a visible effort to relax. "I hope you're right. Speaking of libraries, Sirius, are you making any progress in your father's private one?"

"I'm through the door. Thankfully, blasting me off the tapestry and disowning me didn't effect his barriers."

"You haven't gotten any farther?" Molly asked.

"The old bastard booby trapped the whole room, and I'm not sure what he used where. Getting in only required Black blood, but he was enough of a bastard that he'd trap specific books too—especially the ones the ministry would object to—with some very dark magic."

"I'll have Bill take a look next time he drops by. He and Fleur are coming to dinner later this week," said Molly.

"I'll have to let him in the door, but that's not difficult. Merlin forbid that my ancestors be deprived of their part-blood by-blows and servants."

"Can you help Bill when he gets here?"

"I said I'd let him in, but I missed advanced curse breaking classes, being locked up in Azkaban." Sirius's voice was sour.

"You knew your father, and you know what he'd be more likely to trap. You have his blood, so you'd be safer than any of us in there. He had to have made provisions for an heir—"

"Don't bet on it. He was the sort to believe that if his heir didn't have the wits to disarm the spells, then he didn't deserve to use the library."

"You still have the best chance of finding what's most useful, so Bill can work on those books first. If nothing else, it will keep you busy."

"Because digging through old books is much more fun than recruiting werewolves."

"Think of it this way," Remus broke in, "you'll be pulling out everything your father wouldn't want anyone to see, and you'll be giving it to Albus Dumbledore." He finished the last of his soup. "Thank you for dinner, Molly. It was a welcome change."

"You should come by more often. I always make enough for guests," she cut her eyes to Sirius, "and I always welcome company."

"I'll try, but I don't want my work to follow me back here."

Sirius snorted, obviously wishing it would. Molly shot him a look. Remus ignored the byplay.

"Anyway, I should be going."

"Good luck," Molly told him.

Sirius just applied himself to his food, finishing as Remus left. "I suppose I should go down to the library and try to find a starting point for Bill."

As he rose, Molly smiled and magicked the dishes to the sink and started them washing. "Thanks, Sirius," she said. "Albus should find something for you soon."

"I hope so," he said and walked out.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Good Lord, Bridget! How is it that you always have the nicest garden in the neighborhood? It's nearly November; you should not still have blooms."

"Magic, clearly, Audrey." Bridget looked up from where she knelt in the garden, a pleasant smile on her face. "Honestly, these are the last of them. I'm mostly preparing for spring now."

"Maybe you should sling a few spells around the Caperelli's yard. Have you seen their lawn? It is positively an eyesore. They can't have watered, and I don't think they've even hired a landscaper."

"Audrey, You have to bring it up at the next neighborhood rules meeting. You know we'll impose a fine."

"And a well deserved one. Lord knows what they're doing to our property values."

"Their lawn isn't what concerns me. That's their children. When I came outside this morning, I was missing another pot of chrysanthemums right off my back porch. I have more plants, but I'm getting tired of losing pots to those hooligans. If my John were still alive, he'd take a switch to them."

"And their parents would have him arrested for attempted murder or something equally drastic. That's the problem with kids today: no discipline. 'Spare the rod and spoil the child,' I've always said."

"At least they don't know which plants are valuable. If they messed with my herbs or my roses, I'd take off their fingers with my garden shears." Both women laughed.

"And it would be well deserved! There's a reason your roses won the garden club's blue ribbon for the last four years."

"There's no reason to flatter me, Audrey. You're still on the list of people who gets attar of roses for Christmas."

"Thank goodness for that! Speaking of, how goes business?"

"It breaks even, with enough left over to pay some of the bills, which is enough for me. I'm mostly looking for something to do. John left me enough that I don't have to work."

"I wouldn't think that mail-order herbs had that big a market."

"I'm not selling to the supermarket crowd. 'All natural' remedies are gaining popularity. For another ten dollars, one can order a pamphlet describing the uses our venerable ancestors had for the plants. Of course, it's purely to provide a history of herb lore, and I don't recommend anybody actually try these remedies. When you add that to the nice large disclaimer that I do not dispense medical advice, anything these people do with my herbs are their own business.

"Also the fact that my herbs were hand picked and naturally dried without the use of chemicals appeals to some. I even have a website."

"Without chemicals? They've obviously never smelled your fertilizer."

"What I put in my fertilizer is a secret, and you well know it. Don't think you can weasel it out of me."

"Curses. Foiled again." She laughed. "The more power to you. I'm going to get back to my walk. I'll let you know if I see your pot."

"Thanks. It's getting chilly enough that I'm going to move to my workshop soon."

"Very true. I'll see you tomorrow."

Brigid Channing stopped working as Audrey left her yard, the pleasant expression falling into one much harder. The annoying old busybody was not her first choice of companion, but if she couldn't torture muggles directly anymore, she could, by Merlin, torment them by proxy.

She left her tools in the dirt when she stood—the house elf in charge of the garden could take care of them. She headed for the small toolshed in the back. She touched the back of the padlock holding the doors shut to undo the locking spell and sighed with relief as she stepped into the magically warm, dry interior. The climate was just one more thing she detested about this benighted country.

She pulled her wand from the sleeve of her blouse. At least here, in this primitive shed, she could let her magic free. And she had her true source of income to tend.

But first, she opened the EMP shielded cabinet in the corner that housed her CCTV set up. She switched to the view that showed the location of her now-missing pot and rewound the tape until she saw the thief. The quality wasn't the greatest, but she recognized her neighbor's fifteen year old son. She smiled cruelly. Apparently the neighborhood kids were still daring each other to steal from the "witch". She was rather glad of that fact—she always did like cursing muggles, and the children would place the blame for any misfortune on her whether she cursed them or not, and their parents would not believe them. She couldn't let an opportunity like that go to waste. The boy walked past her house to the school bus stop every morning. It would be easy enough to hit him with a bad luck curse then.

That done, she reset the monitor and turned to her worktable. She had been experimenting with potions meant to raise tempers and paranoia—and therefore cause strife within a group—and her latest batch was almost finished and needed test subjects. Fortunately it was her turn to bring refreshments to her bible study group.

As she finished stirring the potion, she caught motion in the CCTV out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, she saw a taxi pull into her driveway. She frowned. She was not expecting visitors, and none of her clients knew where she lived. She watched closely as a casually dressed young man got out. She did not know him. But the second man— She dropped everything and sprinted for the back door of her house, leaving her shed doors open in her haste. She dropped her work gloves on the floor on her way through, unheeding of the way they marred her pristine carpet.

She reached the front door as her visitors did, flung it open, and drew them inside. She looked past Lestrange to the young man. "My Lord?" she asked hesitantly.

"Indeed," he said with a slow smile.

Channing fell to her knees. "It is so very good to see you again, My Lord."

"It is good to be seen." He motioned her to her feet.

She turned to Lestrange. "You did it. I—" She stopped, shook her head, and began to speak again, her accent shifting from American to British. "I've been living among the muggles so long my manners have withered completely. Come in, My Lord, Reginaldus. Shall I have the house elf get you a drink?"

"That will not be necessary," Riddle said. "We ate in that abominable muggle creation known as an airport."

"Come sit anyway." She led the way into the living room. "Have you been traveling long?"

"More than a week since seeing Algar in Bulgaria," Riddle said, "and almost three since Egypt."

At her look of surprise, Lestrange added, "It is easier to take the trip in stages. Muggle transport is trying under the best of circumstances, and Algar's route was not the best of circumstances." He looked around at the country blue walls and over-stuffed floral print furniture. "You have a _lovely_ home," he added dryly.

"This soulless tribute to muggle tastelessness is a display piece maintained solely to keep the neighbors from becoming curious about me. It is straight out of one of their magazines. The only room almost fit for proper human occupation is the bedroom."

Riddle smiled. "I beginning to worry that the muggles had changed you. I recall that your preferred decorations were books and stacks of parchment."

Channing bowed infinitesimally, acknowledging the hit. "I'll show you my workroom, My Lord. It should put your fears to rest."

"I trust you have also been serving my cause," Riddle said. "Not just hiding among the muggles."

"Of course, My Lord. Would you like the grand tour?"

"I would."

She rose and led the way through the still open back door and across the lawn. "I keep everything of value in the tool shed." They walked in, and the men looked around, bewildered. The building had not been magically enlarged and was half full of pots, bags of soil, and other garden implements. The only sign of magical occupation was the rough wood table with an iron cauldron simmering over a magical fire.

Channing smiled. "I realize the setup is rather basic, but this is just where I do quick work and have a workstation to show anyone who gets nosy." She waved her wand and a trap door appeared in the far corner. A second wave opened the door and exposed the ladder down. "After you, My Lord."

They descended into a spacious room full of leafy green plants in various stages of development under long glass tubes charmed to emit light. Riddle bent to examine one. "What is this plant? I'm not familiar with its use in potions."

"It has no use in potions, My Lord; at least none that are Ministry approved." She smiled coldly. "It's cannabis, My Lord; a muggle mind-altering substance."

"And you've been using it in potions?"

"In a small way, My Lord. It's quite useful in enhancing the effect of all manner of wit-wandering potions. Mostly, however, I grow it as a cash crop. It's illegal in the muggle world, and therefore very lucrative. And it leads to the most interesting contacts."

"And this is what you spent the last ten years building?" LV asked, his tone edging on dangerous.

"Of course not, My Lord. This is just the camouflage. And the extra money doesn't hurt."

"Camouflage?"

"Just so. Should the muggle authorities search my property for whatever reason, they will not be able to find the magicked trap door down to this level. Should the magical authorities ever come sniffing around, they'll believe my precautions are to hide from the muggle police and they'll stop looking. Since I've broken no magical laws, they'll leave."

"But they'll miss your true purpose?"

"Rather than answer, Channing moved to the corner of the room and shoved a table out of the way. After a moment's work, she opened a cleverly concealed trap door. "You will note that this was hidden by carpentry, not magic, so detection spells are useless." She stepped back, showing another ladder. "Would you like to see my true purpose for being in this hell hole?"

They descended onto a room very similar to the one above, but the walls were lined with shelves of books and instead of the center growing area containing marijuana, it contained a variety plants of another sort entirely.

"Merlin," Lestrange breathed. "You have a Umdhlebi? I didn't think they could be grown under an _eos solarum_."

"They can't. That's a muggle sun lamp. It requires more fertilizer than it would otherwise, but the plant is quite healthy."

"Very clever," Riddle said as he examined the plants. "For your research?"

"Every plant in here is controlled or restricted by the Ministry. What I don't use in my own research, I sell on the black market." She smiled. "I trade them for the ingredients I need, mostly. I haven't had much luck raising dark creatures. I have the contacts to get _anything_, muggle or magical."

"Quite impressive."

"The best part is that now that I have it set up, the house elves can tend everything. I can be back in England within the week."

LV looked at her solemnly. "I need you to remain here a bit longer."

"But, My Lord!"

"As far as the ministry is concerned, you perished in one of their raids. It is vital that they continue to think so. Furthermore, your black market contacts cannot be permitted to wonder why you suddenly moved to England."

"I understand, My Lord, and I'd never question your orders. I've just been among muggles a very long time and am anxious to leave."

"I know that it is no easy thing I ask you to do. Your exile is not permanent. You need only stay until I can send someone trustworthy to replace you."

"I will be brewing polyjuice in anticipation of that day. Will you stay awhile before visiting Nereus?"

"Of course. We have plans to make."


End file.
